


please notice (how in love with you i am)

by aliciaclarkes



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist AU, Artist Clarke Griffin, F/F, Fluff, clarke is in love with her, lexa is oblivious, tour guide lexa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 13:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18032951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciaclarkes/pseuds/aliciaclarkes
Summary: Clarke goes to the art museum every Saturday to practice techniques for school. She arrives early, stays for a few hours, fills her sketchbook, and leaves. The routine is always the same, until one day she notices an unfamiliar tour guide stopped in front of her favorite painting. She suddenly finds a new muse.(anonymous prompt)





	please notice (how in love with you i am)

She goes to the art museum every Saturday morning. 

The routine is the same: she walks in, shows her student I.D to the security guard at the front -- who is beginning to know her by name -- and proceeds to the third floor. When she arrives, it’s always empty, her shoes echoing across the marble floors. And every morning, without fail, she is awestruck by the ceilings towering like giants above her with the most expensive paintings in the world dripping down the walls. She often stands in the center, staring straight up towards the sky with a mouth slightly agape, letting the stench of oil and turpentine wash over her bones. 

She settles onto the black bench in the middle of the room, throws her bag to the side, takes out her pencils and sketchbook, lifts her feet off the ground, tucks them beneath her, and begins to draw. 

Clarke knows she’s a decent artist; her professors compliment her work, her mother boasts to colleagues, people bid on her pieces. Though she is the definition of exemplary, she craves the continuous motion of pencil against paper, hand floating across the page, lines taking shape before her eyes. It’s the practice she yearns for. It’s the experience she wants. It’s the feeling she gets; especially when she settles into her second home on the third floor of the Museum of Modern Art. 

She often draws the artwork as technique practice. She retraces the harsh lines of Dali, the blotches of Monet, and the abstract shapes of Picasso. However, in this room, she sits directly in front of her favorite piece; Sunflowers by Vincent Van Gogh. Her sketchbook is filled with wilting petals and the curves of the vase, but that never stops her from trying again. She flips to a blank page and brings her pencil down softly. 

The crowd begins to arrive a little after ten in the morning. 

People filter in and out, children tug on their parent’s sleeve, tour guides wave orange flags to corral them all like cattle. Clarke looks up from her paper to watch the chaos unfold, rolling her eyes and brushing a hair behind her ear with the backside of her hand curled tight around a pencil; a pencil now dulled with the hours ticking by. 

She drags her purse into her lap, rummaging around the bottom with a tongue between her teeth in a desperate search for her sharpener.  _ I could’ve sworn I threw it in here _ , she thinks to herself, the noise around her growing muddled as her attention is pulled into the depths of her bag. 

“And that brings us to this,” a voice says from in front of her. “This is my favorite painting in the museum; Sunflowers, by Vincent Van Gogh.” 

Clarke’s fingers halt. She turns her attention towards the voice. 

A woman she’s never seen before, with chestnut hair tucked back into a ponytail, stands a few feet from the bench. Her eyes glitter emerald green and her smile touches their corners as she speaks about the painting to her left. A white sweater with a collar folded down over the neckline drapes loose across her back, her black slacks tight around her thighs. Her heels echo to the rafters with every step she takes, and for some unknown reason, Clarke is completely and utterly enamored. 

A line of tourists stretch in front of her like a coiling snake of flashing cameras, sun hats, and fanny packs. They ‘ooo’ and ‘ahh’ at the large painting hung beside them, turning their attention from the tour guide to the piece displayed proudly beneath a mounted lamp shining golden rays down on the oil. An older woman steps closer to the painting and Clarke inhales sharply in fear. 

“I’m sorry ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to stay back from the wall and admire it from there,” the tour guide corrects, pointing her finger a few feet back from the painting. Clarke breathes a sigh of relief, mentally thanking the mysterious woman in front of her for protecting her favorite piece from grubby fingers and scorching breath. 

“In the next room we’ll explore the Baroque period.” The guide motions towards the next room, watching the line drift beneath the archway separating the two spaces as she remains in front of Clarke, eyes fixating on the sunflowers in front of her. 

Clarke watches curiously, watching as the guide crosses her arms across her chest, stands directly in front of the painting, and tips her chin up to drink in every brushstroke. There is something elegant about the way she holds herself, and there’s something beautiful about the way she looks. There’s a decent chance Aphrodite reincarnated into this very room. 

The way her hair reflects golden in the light, the way her stance remains marbled in awe, it’s all so enticing to Clarke and she can feel her fingers itch to sketch away at the scene in front of her. As the woman stands still, Clarke sketches behind her, drawing shapes and lines and shading when she can, her eyes flicking back and forth between the tour guide and her page filling with jagged gray lines. The tour group in the next room begins to grow antsy, now desiring explanation for the pieces they’re seeing, so the woman heaves a sigh and moves to the next room with her heels singing to the rafters as she walks. Clarke can’t help but watch the way her hips sway as she moves, the way her hair drapes down her back, even when tied up so tightly. She turns her attention back down towards her sketchbook, satisfied with the outline she’s created, and closes her book for the day. 

She stands, gritting her teeth at the numbness in her calves, before taking another look into the other room, searching for the mystery girl. When she finds her, standing before a Rembrandt with hands a wild flurry of excitement as she tells the history to the group of eager tourists, Clarke feels a twitch of her lips into the beginnings of a smile. 

She tucks her sketchbook and dulled pencils back into her purse before heading down the stairs, shooting one last glance towards her new muse. 

 

***

 

It’s been three weeks since she first laid eyes on the girl and Clarke continues to come every Saturday. 

It’s raining as she approaches the building, her jacket doing the minimal amount of work it could possibly do. It’s no match for the rain and no savior for her t-shirt, much to her chagrin. However, as she steps through the revolving doors, she remembers no one is here. She sends a silent prayer of gratitude towards the sky and takes off her hood. Water drips from her tangled hair, creating puddles in a trail behind her. The security guard waves at her from his desk and though she briefly presents her I.D in his direction, he barely sends both eyes her way in acknowledgement; she comes so often he has no need to check her, but proving her status as a student is muscle memory after so many months of visiting. 

Clarke retreats to the third floor, climbing the stairs two at a time with her tennis shoes squeaking against each step. When she finally arrives, albeit a little out of breath, she feels a smile tug at her lips as she spots the sunflowers on the wall. Today a shadowed body stands in front of it. 

She grumbles to herself at the lack of privacy. The reason she comes so early is to make sure no one is around. She prefers to have a few hours to herself before the crowds flood in, with people halting in front of her focus one by one, blocking her line of sight as she tries desperately to sketch and they try to understand the artwork. 

She moves towards her bench, setting her purse down and opening her bag, hoping that the more she camps out the more willing the figure will be to move on to another room. However, with her -- now sharpened -- pencils in one hand and her sketchbook in another, the person still doesn’t move. As she looks closer, she recognizes the stance.

The woman is back, with her hair hanging loose down her back and curls that lick the base of her spine. Her pants are tight around her legs all the way down to her ankles, a slimmer fit of black fabric. She’s wearing a black sweater with a white shirt underneath, the collar popping out from the neckline and folded down, much like it was the first day Clarke saw her. The woman’s arms are once again folded across her chest and her eyes fixed on the painting. 

Clarke has only seen her one other time since that day a few weeks ago. She rarely brings a group to the room and when she does, she doesn’t stay long. Though her visits are seldom and her presence is brief, Clarke manages to darken some shadows and highlight some details, the sketch of the woman becoming more and more detailed with every passing moment. 

She would be an idiot not to speak to her now that they were alone. 

Clarke sets her supplies on the bench and walks up to the girl with a breath stuck in her lungs, her stomach flipping with somersaults and her chest fluttering with butterflies. Though the anxiety of speaking to a pretty girl eats away at her insides, she manages to stand next to the guide, mirroring her position. The girl either doesn’t notice her or doesn’t feel enticed enough to draw her attention away from the painting. Clarke clears her throat. 

“I see you stop in front of this piece sometimes,” she starts. She notices the flicker of a smile on the candied pink lips of the girl at her side. “Is it your favorite?”

The woman turns towards her with a small smile and a glint in her earthy eyes. It strikes Clarke unexpectedly, knocking the breath from her lungs, at how absolutely gorgeous this woman actually is. Up close, her features are softer, her eyes greener, her lips fuller. Clarke is convinced she’s never seen a goddess until now. She’s glad she got her question out before seeing the girl up close or she would’ve definitely choked on her words. 

“Yes, it is. I mean, I love most of the art here but there’s just something... _ special _ about Van Gogh. I could stare at his work for hours.” She turns her attention back to the sunflowers and Clarke tries to remember how to breathe.  _ It’s in through your nose, out through your mouth, right? _

“I know what you mean,” she says, congratulating herself on a stammer-free sentence. “It’s my favorite too.”

The woman smirks knowingly and turns her attention back to the painting. 

“I figured. I see you here sometimes. Every Saturday, right?”

Clarke blushes profusely, the red creeping up her neck and heating her veins. 

“I-uh...yeah. I’m here on Saturday mornings.” She wrings her hands together in front of her nervously, pulling at the skin of her palms. “I redraw the paintings as practice for school.” 

“Oh yeah? Where do you go?”

“NYAA.” Clarke watches as the woman raises her brows at the prestigious name, though says nothing. She can feel her heartbeat in her ears. 

“I’ve always wanted to do something with art,” the woman starts. “Too bad I’m not very good at it.”

Clarke grins to herself, tucking her chin lower to hide it. 

“What are you doing now?”

The guide turns back towards her, arms still folded across her chest yet holding an open demeanor. She smiles, almost sadly, in Clarke’s direction, her eyes glinting under the light. 

“Law school. Columbia.” 

Clarke feels her breath leave her chest. The girl is not only fiendishly pretty, but so obviously smart beyond her years. She is hooked. 

“Do you enjoy it?” She asks, hoping to continue the conversation before the visitors arrive downstairs. The woman lowers  her chin and smiles at her feet, shaking her head. Clarke feels her cheeks grow warmer. 

“I have to get downstairs to clock in,” the guide says, waving a hand to her side in gesture. Clarke nods her solemn disappointment, wanting to hang onto this moment for a while longer. 

“How about you meet me here at eight o’clock tonight and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.” 

Clarke raises her head, finding herself gazing into the earth itself. The woman smiles, a hint of flirtation dancing on her lips. 

“Y-yes absolutely, that sounds g-great,” Clarke stammers, tripping over her words like untied shoelaces. She scolds herself for acting foolish, begging her tongue to unknot itself. “Won’t the museum be closed?” 

The woman starts to back away from her, step by step, inch by inch, moving farther from the painting and farther from the golden halo above her. Clarke stands motionless in place, a statue among the artwork. 

“Being an employee has it’s perks,” she grins. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

She turns her body, her back facing Clarke, ember curls bouncing with every step. She’s still a mystery, an unnamed deity gliding towards the staircase with a grip on the railing. Clarke feels her words being pulled from her throat in desperation. 

“Wait!” she shouts, taking a step in the woman’s direction. The guide halts and turns back to face her with a cocked brow. “What’s your name?”

“Lexa Woods.”

She feels a smile on her lips. Of course her name would be something as beautiful as she is. 

“Clarke Griffin. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Then it’s a date, Clarke Griffin.” Lexa vanishes from her sight.

She turns back towards the bench, her bottom lip between her teeth and fire beneath her skin. Her heart throbs loudly behind her ribcage, beating her infatuation with a pulsing rhythm. Soon, the rhythm becomes a chant, singing:  _ Lexa, Lexa, Lexa. _ She runs her tongue over every letter, tasting every syllable that rolls from her throat. 

She takes her usual place on the bench, pushing her purse to the side and pulling out her sketchbook. The page with Lexa’s shadowed figure is dog-eared, smudges of graphite across the edges. Her watch reads a little past nine in the morning, yet she can’t help but smile, giddy with impatience and nerves that roll like waves through her stomach. 

She begins to sketch again. 

***

The night is gentle to the city. The cars are scarce, the people quieter, the shops closing until the sun rises again. It’s the night that Clarke is most fond of, though standing in front of a locked museum with billions of dollars worth of precious artwork inside makes her a bit nervous.

She rocks on her feet, arms folded across her chest. Her hair whips behind her in the wind, the cold biting at her cheeks and rattling her bones beneath her clothes. She had decided on skinny jeans and a sweater before leaving the house, but now she’s not so sure that was the best decision.

She checks her watch for the upteenth time, verifying that it is, in fact, eight o’clock, before spotting a dark figure approach her, gliding beneath dimming streetlamps. She feels a smile tug at the corner of her lips, her body suddenly warm as she watches Lexa sway towards her in a simple cardigan and black jeans. A breath catches in her throat at the beauty before her, thankful that the moonlight isn’t enough to shine a spotlight on her blushing skin. 

“Hi,” Lexa murmurs, her voice low as she flashes a beaming smile that Clarke quickly mirrors. 

“Hi.”

“Ready to go in?”

“Absolutely.”

Lexa reaches into her back pocket for her keycard, swiping it through the black box at the side of the door. There’s a beep, a buzz, and the doors are unlocked, with Lexa already wrapping her hand around the handle and pulling at one side to open it. She gestures a hand towards inside, letting Clarke slide past. 

The museum is different at night. Each larger painting and individual statue has a personal lamp, the golden beams the only lightsource in the building. During the day, the sun shines brightly through the windows, the chandeliers in the center of the rooms sparkling overhead. Here and now, the only lights were from the glow of the lamps and Lexa’s smile. 

“Do you come here a lot after hours?” Clarke can’t tear her gaze away from the mighty ceilings above her, noticing a bit of moonlight trickling in and reflecting off the marble floors. She hears Lexa moving beside her, walking towards the staircase. She quickly follows. 

“No, not really. Besides, we’re not really supposed to,” Lexa teases, climbing the steps with a slender hand curled around the banister. Clarke matches her pace, the sounds of their shoes echoing against the walls as they ascend to the third floor. 

“You don’t strike me as rebellious.”

“I can be,” Lexa jibes, tipping her chin and grinning wildly in Clarke’s direction. “Especially for pretty girls.”

Clarke feels her heart skip like a broken record in her chest. Her footsteps falter slightly, eyes wide at the unabashed comment.  _ She thinks I’m pretty? _

She quickly shakes the thought from her head and picks up her feet, moving quickly to match the lengthy strides of the girl nearing the top of the staircase. 

“Sit with me?” the guide asks, throwing a glance over her shoulder as she walks towards Clarke’s bench in the center of the darkened room. Clarke nods, trying desperately to hide how out of breath and out of shape she is. She isn’t used to careening those steps with someone else, especially when that someone happens to be three inches taller with legs that stretch for miles. 

With her fluttering heart now calm and her lungs open enough to embrace the air, she settles onto the bench next to Lexa, setting her purse at her side and folding her hands in her lap. 

“So,” Lexa starts, turning her attention towards Clarke, “what masterpieces do you make when you sit here for hours and hours every Saturday?”

Clarke feels her cheeks flush. 

“I bounce around, but lately I’ve been focused on Sunflowers.” She watches Lexa’s eyes shine, a smile painting her lips. They both look towards the painting centered on the wall beneath a golden light. 

“I picked up this job a few months ago to pay for law school. If I’m being honest, I didn’t even know what I was applying for, I was just thrilled to be around art all the time.” 

They share a glance, a breathy laugh, a nervous throat clear before she continues. 

“During one of my tours I found this piece and just...fell in love with it. So I researched everything I could on the painting and Van Gogh and every once in a while I’ll bring a tour through here, just so I can stare at it.”

Clarke smiles through Lexa’s story, watching with rapt attention as the girl moves her hands dramatically with every word. She’s hypnotizing to say the least, especially as her features glow under the faint lights and her eyes shine with memories. Clarke feels her fingers itch to finish the portrait in her sketchbook. 

“When I was younger,” she starts, meeting Lexa’s gaze as her voice floods the empty room, “my mom loved sunflowers. She hung a replica of this painting in our hallway and I would look at it every day on my way out.”

“Has she seen your work?” Lexa asks, her eyes soft and curious. 

“Yeah, a few. She’s in California, so I don’t see much of her anymore, but I try to send pictures when I can. She’s still not entirely thrilled I chose art over medicine.”

Lexa nods her head in obvious understanding. Clarke had no idea that when she agreed to a date with a stranger that she would be sharing her childhood memories, though for some reason she feels perfectly at peace. With the steady breath of a beautiful girl by her side and the smell of paint filling the room, she feels comfortable spilling her legacy like ink on a page. 

“My father wanted business instead of law, so I know the feeling.” Lexa smiles in Clarke’s direction, a soft pull of her lips riddled with empathy. “Though I’m sure you’re good at art, right?”

“I like to think so,” Clarke laughs. “It’s nice getting the practice every week, though.”

“Well,” Lexa stands, turning her back towards the painting and walking backwards with a childish smirk. “If you want the practice, draw me.”

“What?”

“C’mon Griffin, I want to see your skills. Show me why you sit in this room for hours.” 

Clarke feels the heat burn up the column of her neck at the request.  _ If only she knew _ , she thinks to herself,  _ that she’s the reason I keep coming back _ . She shakes her head, yet pulls the sketchbook from her purse anyway, caving into the requests of the childish woman in front of her. She was never one to back down from a challenge and was never one to refuse a pretty girl. 

“Alright, alright,” she concedes. “Turn your back towards me and face the painting.”

Lexa giddily complies, turning her back to face Clarke, swinging chestnut locks over her shoulder, sweeping down her spine. 

“Like this?”

Clarke flips to the portrait she was nearly finished with, comparing the picture to the model before her. It wasn’t quite right and she wanted everything to look perfect. 

“Not quite,” she murmurs, walking over to where Lexa stands before the artwork. The closer she gets, the heavier the floral perfume Lexa wears settles over her bones. She feels her knees tremor a bit as she moves, though she inches closer to Lexa until she’s nearly pressed up against her side. 

She reaches out a hesitant hand, gently placing it on her right shoulder and pulling it back a few centimeters. A shock runs through her palm at the touch, a lightning bolt in her stomach and a flurry of chaos in her chest. Lexa obliges to the molding position, moving her shoulder to where she’s wanted. If she hears the thudding heartbeat in Clarke’s chest she doesn’t say anything. 

“Like this?”

Clarke clears her throat and nods a bit, walking back towards the bench to sit down. 

“Y-yeah, that’s perfect. Stay just like that.” She starts her progress. 

Graphite grinds against the ridges of the page, scratching along the parchment in a noise just loud enough to echo through the rafters, especially in a room so empty. Shadows begin to form, darkened color gliding across the walls and the floor, leaving a halo of light just above the subject. Her eyes rise and fall with the motion of her hand, studying the position of the girl before sketching in more detailed lines. Every once in a while, she stops completely, drinking in the sight before shaking her head and turning back to her progress until the page is riddled with lines. 

“I’m finished,” Clarke sighs, tucking her pencil back into her purse and leaving her sketchbook splayed out across her lap. Lexa turns to face her again, hands around each elbow with arms across her chest and a smile on her face as she approaches the bench and sits down next to Clarke. 

She’s silent for a moment, scanning the page with fervent eyes, swallowing every piece of information and every sliver of detail she could find. Clarke feels herself drowning in nerves. 

“This...it’s...wow, Clarke. This is beautiful,” the girl stammers, reaching out a shaking finger to stroke along the edges of her figure on the page. She inches closer to get a better look, a stray hair ticking Clarke’s cheek. 

All Clarke can do is hold her breath in silence. 

“You weren’t kidding about your talent,” Lexa chuckles breathily, bringing her eyes up to meet Clarke’s. They were a vibrant green, shining in the gentle glow of the dimmed lights around them yet darkened by the nightfall of the room that shrouded them in privacy. She can feel Lexa’s breath against her skin and she can’t help but shift her gaze to Lexa’s lips so close to hers. 

With a small lean, a bated pause, an anxious cacophony of heartbeats, Lexa swallows Clarke’s lips into her own like the roaring sea sinking traveling ships venturing out too far from shore. Clarke can only sigh into the pressure against her mouth, the sweetness against her tongue. 

Their movements are gentle, shifting in time with each other, a delicate dance of push and pull and inhale and exhale. The urgency begins slowly, with Lexa dragging her tongue along Clarke’s bottom lip in a silent plea, and Clarke sees embers behind her eyelids as a hand tangles in her hair and a smooth tongue meets her own with hesitance that turns into desire. 

Lexa moans against her lips and she swears she hears angels sing. She imagines heaven can’t get much better than this. Her sketchbook falls from her lap and rings a sharp noise through the room as it collides with the floor, though neither of them pay any mind as Clarke inches her way into Lexa’s lap with a whimper falling from her lips and a brain fuzzy with candied kisses and swollen lips. 

***

She goes to the museum the following Saturday. 

The routine is the same as it always is; the security guard goes so far as to roll his eyes this morning, and Clarke bites back a smile as she makes longer strides towards the staircase. 

She can still feel the kisses against her lips, the whispers against her tongue, the laughter and the teasing against the shell of her ear. Though they didn’t do much more than kiss, and though they eventually parted ways after a few hours of sharing stories back and forth, the third floor still looks different to her now, sending a warm, at-home feeling through her chest, blooming like roses along her ribcage. 

The room is empty -- as always -- though something is nestled against the beams of the metal bench in the center. She furrows her brow, looking around to make sure no one is here or that no one forgot anything. The closer she gets, the more her heart melts and sinks into her stomach. She’s convinced she can’t smile any brighter. 

On the bench sits a single sunflower, stalk a lighter green than Lexa’s eyes. The petals are full and lush, leaves stretching towards the top of the flower. It takes up more than half the bench, its blackened center facing the intricate ceilings above. Around the stem is a card, tied to the flower with a single piece of twine. She bites her lip as she reads:

_ Clarke, _

_ Thank you for last week. Maybe we can try more drawing practice in a place a little more private next time.  _

_ \- Lexa _

Clarke flips the card over to find a number scrawled along the back. She quickly pockets the card and settles into her usual spot, pulling her sketchbook and pencils from her purse. She warms up with a few random sketches: the details in the frames, the patterns on the floor, the smudges in the portraits. She loses track of time until loud voices crest the stairs, drawing her attention away from her quickly filling page. 

Lexa leads a group of twenty or so people up the steps, stopping just in front of Sunflowers. She turns to face them, gesturing to the painting at her side with her spine straight with professionalism. 

“That brings us to Sunflowers, by Vincent Van Gogh; my  _ second _ favorite masterpiece in the museum.” She throws her gaze towards Clarke sitting idly on the bench, watching the guide with swooning eyes and a hand halted against the paper in her lap. 

As Lexa continues explaining the history behind the painting, last week flashes behind Clarke’s eyes in brief moments. Her heart beats wildly behind her ribcage, a pounding like a war drum in her ears that slowly contorts to its own rhythm: Lexa, Lexa, Lexa. 

The sunflower sits proudly at her side. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Back with a oneshot! I do take requests and I've got another chaptered AU in the works right now. Keep sending ideas in and don't be shy! You can talk to me [here](https://aliciaclarkes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
